Bucky Goes to Xavier's School for Help
by cherik-mcbender
Summary: Now that Bucky is himself again, he wants to be absolutely certain that no one will take control of him again. So he goes to the only people who can help him - Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr.


Erik spat on the paper towel and continued to scrub the stubborn mark on the chalkboard. It had been a long day – one of those days when he began to regret letting Charles convince him to teach his own class. He started when he heard the click of the door, dropped his hand down and snapping, "Office hours are over. Come back tomorrow."

"Uh, I'm not one of your students. You're Professor Lehnsherr, right?"

Erik wiped his hands on his shirt, smearing the black fabric with chalk, and rubbed his eyes. "I am. Who's asking?" He turned around with a sigh. "I'm rather busy right – " His eyes widened. "I've seen you before – on TV – I – "

The man in the doorway shuffled in awkwardly, pushing his hoodie off his face. "I'm sorry to bother you, Professor. My name's James Buchanan Barnes – but people call me Bucky. I need your help."

Erik moved past his desk, his eyes glued to the stranger. "You're the one they call the Winter Soldier."

Bucky cringed. "I'd prefer if you called me Bucky, if you don't mind. Bad associations and all."

"Right, right." Erik stared at him. "Your arm – I can feel it – could you…could you show me?"

Bucky, slightly uncomfortable from Erik's directness, shrugged and pulled off his sweatshirt. His shirt rode up as he tugged at the jacket, revealing scarred skin stretched over muscle.

Charles walked in just then, his mouth agape. "I'm sorry – who are you?"

"You're Professor Xavier, right? Good, I need you, too."

"Charles!" Erik snapped out of his awe and strode over to his boyfriend. "This is Bucky Barnes." He leaned in to Charles' ear and breathed, "You know – the Winter Soldier."

Charles' jaw stayed wide open. "Oh," he whispered.

Bucky tossed his sweatshirt onto a desk, flinching at the attention. "Look, I didn't come to be gawked at. I need your help."

Erik's eyes raked up and down the metal arm, taking in every screw, every wire, and every marking. "It's incredible."

"It's a mark," Bucky murmured. "A burden. But I need it – I need it to function, to fight – it's wired into my body."

"Extraordinary," Charles rasped, reaching out and tracing a path over the metal with his finger.

Bucky shifted uncomfortably. "So can you help me or not?"

"What's the problem?"

"Two problems. Which is why I hoped to meet both of you. My…friend, Steve – he told me about your school, and about you two – he said maybe you could help."

"We'll do our best," Charles said, his eyes leaving Bucky's arm and travelling up to his face, his eyes dark with concern. "Whatever we can do."

Bucky shuddered, the pity in Charles' eyes making him frustrated. "It's – well, now that I'm me again – I need to make sure, you know? That I'm me. But I need this arm in order to help fight – for the good guys," he added quickly, "and no scans or anything are working, because of the advanced cybernetic technology and the vibranium…so I was hoping that Professor Lehnsherr could…take a look? Without surgically or mechanically touching it. And Professor Xavier – " He took a deep breath, taking care not to let his fear creep into his eyes " – I'm going to need you to go into my mind to make sure there's nothing left of them inside me."

"James, that's a very serious – " Charles began at the same time as Erik started, "Bucky, I'm not sure how – "

Bucky raised his hand, and they both immediately quieted. "I know it's close to impossible, or very risky or…but…" He held each of their gazes in turn. "Understand this: no matter what you do…I've had worse."

Charles opened his mouth to argue again, but Erik slipped his hand into Charles'. "He knows what's best for him, Charles. We owe him our best shot."

Charles squeezed Erik's fingers, clenching his jaw and staring into Bucky's eyes, until finally, he nodded. "Okay. I'll do what I can."

Erik's job was simple – much easier than Bucky had even dared to dream. Charles helped strap his arm down in a wire cast they made so it would stay absolutely still as Erik worked. Charles sat next to him, reminding him to breathe and remain calm. Any bit of accidental motion Erik caused in the metal could set off a tracker, a bomb, or kill Bucky instantly. So Erik continued to breathe, his fingers lying gently on top of the wire mesh, his eyes flickering back and forth beneath his eyelids. Eventually, he opened his eyes. After a quick glance at Charles, he swiveled his chair to face Bucky, who was staring at the wall.

"Bucky, just as you had suggested…there seems to be a kill switch embedded in the circuitry. I think – I'm not certain – but it looks as though it's programmed to release cyanide into your blood stream if any damage comes to your arm."

Bucky laughed softly. "Of course." He turned to look at Charles and Erik, his face calm and his eyes focused. "Can you disable it somehow? Me dying isn't the worst thing in the world, but…well, it would be nice to have that out."

"Just a moment." Erik leaned in to Charles, describing what he had felt. Charles nodded and murmured quick instructions to him. Erik turned back. "Very possibly. But…there is a risk, of course."

Bucky hesitated. Then he nodded. "Steve would want it out. Just…try, please. If it doesn't work, remember that it's not on you." And he leaned his head back against the headrest of his seat and continued to stare at the wall, his eyes blank.

Erik placed his fingers back over the cast, took a deep breath, and flicked his pointer finger. There was a small click, and Erik drew a quick breath in, his eyes widening – until Bucky blinked.

"Was that it?"

Erik removed his hands and started laughing. "Yes. Yes, that was it. It's done." He wiped his forehead with the back of a quivering hand and wiped the sweat away.

Charles wrapped an arm around Erik's shoulders. "You did it," he murmured. "You saved him."

Erik slumped back in his chair, gasping for air, as Bucky watched him through calm eyes, breathing steadily, only the ghost of a smile playing at his lips.

Charles' job was not so simple. With Bucky strapped into the machine, his arms and legs pulled in opposite directions so that he almost looked as though he was floating in mid-air, Charles stepped back. Bucky held his head up, watching Charles' expression.

"James, this isn't going to be pleasant."

"I know that."

"It may be even worse than your previous…experiences. Your mind has been torn apart several times – that much is obvious to me when I reach out, but – it has begun the healing process, and has scarred over in several places. Tearing into the vulnerable patchwork that your mind has been using to heal…it could destroy everything you've….it could be disastrous."

Bucky smiled perversely. "Just like anything I do, Professor. Just hurry up and get it over with. And – don't stop, okay? It'll hurt; I get that. Don't go soft on me."

Charles held his gaze for a moment longer and then nodded. "As you wish." He pulled up a chair and sat down so that he was across from Bucky, watching the muscular, scarred body float in the center of the room. "Are you ready?"

"Ready."

"Erik, get him the mouth guard."

Bucky's body convulsed as he watched Erik bring over a piece of plastic.

"Are you okay?" Charles asked, concerned.

"Mmm," Bucky grunted in response. "Just…bad memories." He opened his mouth and accepted the mouth guard, biting down and shaking his hair out of his face. "Let's do this," he mumbled through the plastic, clenching his jaw tightly and closing his eyes.

Charles brought two fingers slowly to his temple, trying to steady his breathing. Erik stepped up behind him and laid a hand on Charles' shoulder, rubbing it gently. "It's okay. You can do this," he whispered.

Bucky opened his eyes and watched them, his own racing heart suddenly beginning to slow as he thought of Steve.

The physical pain came first – the shocks rippling up and down his spine, his muscles seizing. He writhed in the confines of the machine as pain shot through every inch of his body. He bit down hard on the mouth guard, trying to think of Steve and only Steve – of the alley, of their games of tag, of their races through the city, of Steve's face when he told him he had been drafted, of Steve rescuing him after the hours of pain in the dungeon – pain – pain – Bucky screamed through the mouth guard, his yells echoing through the chamber, until–

His body was still, only occasional aftershocks making him twitch. Then, the mental pain came. Though his eyes stayed open, memories flashed across his vision. No matter how much he blinked, they clicked on and on, the reel of his pain projected in his mind. His mother locked in the Tuberculosis ward, the funeral where only he and Rebecca were present, staring at the grave that was supposed to serve as their mother, the look on the general's face when he told them that they were orphans, the fury in Rebecca's eyes when he told her it was best if she left and went to the school, the look of pity the general gave him when he begged to be taken back to the camp, the rage and frustration that fueled his training, the fear that filled him when they captured the 107th, when they took Bucky and began to cut him, to slice into him and mess with his body – the fact that that was nothing compared to what they did to him after the cliff – the things they told him to make him angry, to test his abilities – the way they played with him as though he was a toy, confusing him and making him desperate for memories before wiping him and using him as a soldier – using him as a weapon – the look of terror on his first victim, the blood stained on his hands–

"Bucky."

It was someone's voice, someone not in the memory. Bucky tried to tear himself out of the endless loop of horrific memories, but he kept getting sucked back in–

"Bucky."

There was a hand on his arm, a muscular, firm hand, a hand like…

Bucky's mouth went dry. Steve.

Charles' voice filtered through the screams echoing in his head. It's over, James. Think of something that makes you happy. Think of those you love. Think of who you are. Come back.

Images of Steve flickered through the visions of torture and death.

This is the most difficult part, Bucky. This is where I need your help. You need to choose happiness. You need to choose you.

Bucky spat the mouth guard out, gagging. "I – I can't – " He looked down at the hand on his arm, the figure muddled through the slideshow of his life. "Steve?"

It all came crashing down, and for a second, all he saw was a blinding brightness. He blinked away the stars, his body sagging from the restraints, every ounce of energy drained. Slowly, he lifted his head. "Steve?"

Erik lowered his hand. "I'm sorry, Bucky, it's me."

Bucky swallowed. "Is it over?"

"It's over." Charles stood from the seat and walked over to a control panel. Bucky fell from the restraints, Erik catching him before he hit the ground. "We'll take you to our room, where you can recover in private. And then…Bucky?"

Bucky made a mumbled sound.

"Then you can go back to Steve. And you can be you. Forever. They're out of your head now. Officially."

Bucky forced his head up to look at Charles, the familiar stoic look plastered on his weary face. Slowly, his head began to rush with a strange feeling, and his eyes overflowed, tears streaming down his face. "Thank you," he whispered weakly. "Thank you."


End file.
